BB Brings Up Bill
by b.chey
Summary: Set a few months after the last movie. How Beatrix is dealing with being a mother.


Disclaimer: I don't own Kill Bill or any of it's characters

B.B. Brings up Bill

B.B. drew a picture today and asked me to tape it to her bedroom window. I thought it was a tree in the fall, surrounded by red and orange leaves, but I was wrong.

It was "daddy in hell." His stick figure arms were out-stretched like he was going to give someone a hug and he smiled as flames covered his head and hands.

I hid my distress by kissing her forehead and asked her, "What is Hell, pumpkin?" She told me that was where daddy said he would go when mommy killed him. He told her that "because of the bad, _bad_ thing he did to mommy, he would get burned by fire forever and ever in a place called Hell."

I guess, I figured that she knew that I killed Bill, but in four months, she has never mentioned it, and neither have I. In fact, she hardly mentions Bill at all. My heart skipped and I swallowed as I asked B.B. if she knew why I had killed her daddy.

"Daddy said that you had to," she replied matter of fact. Then, as if she had realized something, she lowered her head and started to scribble on a new piece of paper.

"What's wrong, Sweetie?" I asked, my heart beating hard as I covered her frantic little hand with mine. I was expecting her to tell me that she missed her daddy and that she hated me for taking him away, but she didn't.

"Daddy said it was a secret." She started to cry. "Daddy said, 'don't let mommy know, that _you_ know what she did to daddy.' " "He said, 'Mommy will be _so_ sad and we want mommy to be happy.'" "_I'm sorry_, Mommy. _Please_ be happy, Mommy" she pleaded.

I didn't know what to say.

Oh, Bill. You fucking bastard. How am I going to do this?

I don't want Bill dead any less than I did before I killed him, but sometimes I wish I could talk to him. I have so many questions about B.B. and so many decisions to make about raising her.

I haven't decided what to teach B.B. in the way of fighting. She is advanced for her age in some of the martial arts and can do some floor exercises in gymnastics. She is great at cartwheels and draws us doing them together. Tumble weeds with smiling faces and shoes. I am the big tumbleweed in front and she follows behind me, often in midair.

I think about what Bill said that night.

I think about the gold fish and superman. I wonder, if I teach B.B. what I know, if she will use it the way I have. Nevertheless, how can I not teach her, knowing the dangers she may face for being our daughter. If I don't teach her, and it is her nature to kill, then what will happen to her? She may find someone like Bill to take her in and teach her the art of killing for his own use.

As of now, I have been going over light drills with her in the various forms of martial arts that Bill had been teaching her, and I couldn't help teaching more gymnastics; she is a natural. This is also a way for us to have fun together. Our drills, along with our morning and evening stretches, have become rituals that I look forward to.

B.B. and I are living in South America.

I have been working for a small company that gives tours up one of the dormant volcanoes and has a quiet little tourist resort at the foot of the mountain.

A large part of the tour consists of telling romantic (mostly fabricated) legends surrounding the volcanoes history to their tourists who are mostly middle-aged British women, who don't feel comfortable being led around by a native man. They tell me that the men in this beautiful country can be quite dangerous, not like English gentle men.

They express concern for me, saying "oh, but you are so young and pretty, how can you feel safe so far from home?"

If they only knew how I felt.

B.B. stays with the owner's wife during the day. She has four children and two of them are close to B.B.'s age. Sometimes when I go to pick her up, I watch her playing through the window, but then one of the children spots me, and my B.B. runs to hug me. She should be starting school next year, but the public schools here are not worth the gas and I can't afford a private one.

I should have taken life insurance out on Bill before I killed him.

Last week, I was pulled over by a cop.

It seems that I had a brake light out, but he must not have liked the look of me because he asked me to step out of the car and put my hands on the hood. I could see B.B. in the back seat watching me. She looked concerned, but not scared.

I was a little more than concerned.

The cop kicked my ankles apart, then beginning just beneath my breasts, he proceeded to pat me down. As his hands moved across my body, I began to wonder if this was really a cop at all.

When his hands stopped at the left side of my ass and pulled out my wallet, I realized that this was just one of the famed crooked cops of the area. I relaxed a little when I looked back and saw him take the twenty from where my driver's license would have been.

He put my wallet back, but must have felt it his duty to finish his search because he carefully felt his way down my thighs.

I could see myself kicking him in the head with the bottom of my heel and then stepping on his throat, but I looked into the car window and saw B.B.

She was trying to braid the tail of a pony toy, which the hotel owner's wife had given her. The cop finished groping me and slapped my rear to let me know I could go on my way. He tipped his hat to B.B. and winked at me as he thanked me for my cooperation, saying that too many dangerous criminals are caught, but mistakenly released by the police.

I slid back into the car, but waited for him to drive away before I started the engine.

Shit. I would have killed that dumb fuck.

Four months ago, I would have killed him, but things have changed. I am not weak, but now I have a weakness, and when I would have stopped thinking and started acting on instinct and reflex, I'm thinking of B.B. She is drawing me back to life and its consequences, but if someone ever tried to hurt her, I know I wouldn't be able to stop myself from killing them.

No, I didn't know how to answer B.B. about her secret.

I did not know how to talk to my four-year-old daughter about my assassination of her father, or how I felt about her knowing that I killed him. I did not even know how I felt about the whole mess and might never know, but I managed to smile as my eyes welled up with tears.

B.B. gave me a sympathetic smile and threw her arms around my neck, "Don't worry Mommy," she said, "The good thing is, daddy said you could go to Hell some day, too, for the bad thing _you_ did to daddy."

I guess, she could be right, but for now, I'm going to enjoy having what I thought was lost to me. I think I will let B.B. hang up her picture. Bill's flame-coated stick figure arms will help me to remember that for all of his enlightened observation, he didn't know everything...

He didn't know me.


End file.
